


Late

by OrilliaOrange



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 09:18:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6233083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrilliaOrange/pseuds/OrilliaOrange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Garrus shows up fashionably late to a rescue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Late

Garrus slogs through mud and blood and who the hell knows what else on his way to Shepard’s beacon. The remains of the colony are shot to shit, burned and ravaged by Reaper forces. According to his armour’s VI, the only non hostile thing alive in the wreckage is him. Him and (Garrus can’t think otherwise) Shepard. There isn’t another option. Forget all of the things he’s said about the ruthless calculus of war. Shepard doesn’t get picked off on a backwards colony in the ass end of space. She’s Commander Shepard, Hero of the Citadel. The woman who’s personally killed two Reapers, ended the genophage, stopped a rogue Spectre, and brought peace to four different warring species. She’s come back from the dead. There’s no damn way _this_ is how he loses her.

His scanners indicate that the climate here is at the higher end of what humans can tolerate. It reminds him of Virmire. Swampy. Shepard hated it there. She probably hates it here. Being stranded on a planet doesn’t usually endear it to you. 

“Beacon’s still going strong- drag her somewhere with clear LZ and we’re in business,” Cortez says.

“Copy that.” 

Gunfire in the distance makes Garrus feel better. Gunfire means the Reapers still have something to shoot at. Gunfire means someone’s shooting _back._

Cortez was right- Shepard’s holed up in a building that isn’t at all convenient. Leave it to her to find the galaxy’s toughest treehouse. In the middle of a dense tangle of trees dripping with moss and vines. In a swamp. 

One Marauder drops into the muck missing most of his torso. Shepard’s conserving her ammo and (Garrus waits to test his hypothesis) not using her biotics. Not reassuring, but she’s alive so he’s not about to be picky.

“Cavalry’s here,” he says over the comms.

He shoots a cannibal. 

There’s a blur of motion near Shepard’s tree. A Phantom. Hell. 

“You’re late,” Shepard says, voice thready. 

The Phantom flits out of his sights before Garrus can pull the trigger.

“Fashionably late,” Garrus corrects. 

Shepard coughs out a laugh. 

“Thought you weren’t gonna make it, Vakarian.” 

Garrus puts an incendiary bullet through the Phantom’s skull. Then another, because Shepard’s tone is unacceptable. 

“Have a little faith in your boyfriend,” he says.

Silence.

Garrus freezes for a half second. A bullet socks him in the shoulder. His shields catch it but it’s damn annoying. Before Garrus can kill the bastard, Shepard does.

“I just want you to know, “ Shepard says. “I’m ahead of you now.”

“Kill stealer,” Garrus accuses. With fondness, of course. 

The other hostiles are dug in, hiding among the bulbous roots and sludgy water. 

“Not building a summer home here,” Shepard says. “Too hot,” Garrus agrees. “A winter home maybe?”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Shepard warns. 

He can’t tell if she’s laughing or wheezing. There are bodies sprawled around the base of Shepard’s tree. Garrus counts four Cannibals and two Banshees. One human. A Banshee still reaches through him, her hazy eyes full of malice even in death.

“Tali’s back on the _Normandy_ ,” he says. Picks off a Marauder. “She patched her suit in time but Dr. Chakwas says she’s already running a mild fever.”

Two more Cannibals. Silence gapes between Garrus and the treehouse.

“Good,” Shepard says. “Glad it’s only a fever.”

Garrus’ shoulders relax.

“What was that, Shepard? Couldn’t hear you over the sound of your lead getting trashed.”

“You’re funny for a turian.”

His suit’s climate control is having a hell of a time coping with the close, humid air. The further into the trees he goes, the air becomes denser and the ground gets looser. Condensation beads on his helmet.

“Shit.” 

“You alright, Vakarian?” Shepard asks.

Another shot bounces off his shields and Garrus curses. 

“Ground gave way. I’m hip deep in mud and the Marauder noticed.”

“Rethinking your vacation home?”

“You’re funny for a human.” 

Shepard rasps out a laugh. The Marauder stumbles, as a bullet rips through its knee. 

“That was it for me, Vakarian. Sorry.” 

Garrus blows the top of the Marauder’s skull off. His visor beeps at him.

“Area’s clear, Shepard. Am I going up or are you going down?”

“Watch your mouth, Vakarian.”

Garrus rolls his eyes. The mud lets go of him with an unpleasant squelch. His armour’s brownish green from the waist down and speckled with bits of vegetation. He probably stinks. Stumping towards Shepard’s roost, he feels less the heroic rescuer and more what he is- tired and scared.

“How did you get up there?” he asks.

The tree is slick and wide, the only branches are high up, too far for him to reach.

“Ladder,” Shepard says. “Hold on.” 

Something above him clanks, and that’s all the warning Garrus has. The ladder misses his head by inches. 

“Careful,” he warns. “I didn’t come all this way to be killed by a ladder.” 

Shepard doesn’t reply. Garrus climbs faster. When he pokes his head through the trapdoor, Shepard waves one listless, gauntleted hand at him. The other’s clamped around her midsection. She smiles but it’s just a thin twitch of her mouth. Her helmet’s off. Garrus’ guts clench. Shepard’s skin is pale and waxy, her hair hanging in lank clumps around her face. 

“Bout time, Vakarian,” she whispers. “Hi.”

“Hey.” 

Garrus squeezes through the trapdoor, crosses the room strewing mud behind him. Shepard’s lip wobbles. 

“Hurts,” she mumbles. “Thought I wasn’t gonna-” 

Garrus’ throat sticks shut. He can’t look at her, at the tear tracks on her grimy face or the blood caked into her armour. Instead he takes a breath, and peels her arm away from the ruined armour around her middle. 

“Shields dropped. The surviving colonists were non-combatants,” she says. “Couldn’t fuckin’ shoot straight.” 

There’s medigel in his armour’s dispenser still. Garrus calls it up. It’s not enough, but it’ll make things easier for her. 

“Medigel ran out. Took too many stupid hits trying to keep the colonists alive. Bad hit on the way, last colonists didn’t make it.” 

Despite the medigel, Shepard’s eyes are distant. Garrus wonders where her helmet is.

“C’mon Shepard. We can’t keep Cortez waiting,” he says.

Shepard huffs. 

“Such a worrywart,” she slurs.

Garrus helps her stand, and half drags her to the trapdoor. 

“You couldn’t have picked a place with stairs?”

“You know me. Love a challenge.” 

She leans against him. Garrus’ arm is tight around her ribs, and it’s very clear he’s the only thing preventing her from hitting the floor. There’s no way he can manage to get them both down through the trapdoor- its edges squealed against his armour on the way in. They need a plan. Shepard needs him to come up with a good one. 

Spirits.

Garrus shuts the trapdoor and lowers Shepard down onto the floor. Rummaging around the treehouse proves helpful- some of the colonists were clearly up to no good out here, and Garrus is grateful for it. A thick coil of rope is stashed in a nearby trunk. Whether it can support Shepard’s armoured weight isn’t clear, but it will have to do.

“Jane?” Garrus asks. 

Shepard’s eyelids flutter. Her colour’s better, but that could be a flush from the heat. 

“Mm? Gar’s?”

“I’m going to lower you down first,” Garrus says. 

Shepard sighs, eyes flitting from him to the rope and back again. 

“Do I get a safeword?”

***

Shepard wakes up in her own bed. Garrus would like to pretend he hasn’t been watching her sleep since he woke up five minutes ago. But he has been, so instead he gathers her closer. Feels her nuzzle against his chest, the soft sigh of her breath against his carapace.

“You’re like a furnace,” she mumbles. “Dunno how.”

She blinks, and Garrus can practically see the thought cross her mind. Shepard peeks beneath her blanket. No bandages, no bruises. Just one ropey turian arm slung beneath her breasts. 

“Chakwas put you out for a night,” Garrus rumbles. “You were dehydrated, lost a lot of blood.”

“The last Banshee speared the colonist in front of me,” Shepard mutters. “Her arm went through him, and hit me too.” 

Garrus pulls her closer. Shepard rolls over, squirms so she can rest her forehead against his. 

“Planetside you said-” Garrus starts. Swallows. “You thought I wasn’t going to come for you.” 

He can feel his heart pounding, the tension yanking at his muscles. The words burn his throat.

“Garrus-” 

“Never,” he says. Mostly to her hair. “Never say that again. I’ll always-” 

“I know,” Shepard says, kisses him. “It’s okay, Garrus.” 

It isn’t. He’s in the habit of believing she’s capable of anything, that only some galactic cataclysm could come close to taking her from him again. He can’t worry about whether or not she’ll come back every time she leaves the _Normandy_. The merest quirk of fate, of bad luck, could take her from him in a second, and he needs her to believe he’ll always come for her. That there’s nothing in the galaxy with strength enough to break them apart. Even as he holds her, feels the shifting of her bones beneath her skin, Garrus knows it isn’t so. 

“Jane?” he says, mostly just to hear her name. 

“mmn?”

Her eyes are half lidded, face soft as she slips back into sleep. 

Right that second, it doesn’t matter if they have six weeks or sixty years. Garrus settles himself more comfortably around Shepard, and lets the soft susurrus of her breathing lull him to sleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> For Satine86, who prompted it on tumblr! <3 dear


End file.
